Chapter 2

Meng Ning and Qi Xiao walked together toward the staff dorms.

The C Hotel stood on a remote island, reachable only by speedboat. Because of that, the beach lifesaving team got two days off per week on rotation, spending the rest of their time in the hotel’s employee dormitories.

The team’s dorms were on the basement level, but far from dismal or gloomy. Excellent dehumidifiers and fresh air systems made them nearly as comfortable as the guest rooms upstairs. The semi-sunken design even offered garden views from the windows—though the rooms were much smaller by comparison.

Meng Ning and Qi Xiao were roommates. Two single beds draped in crisp white sheets took up almost all the space, leaving just a narrow aisle between the bedside tables. Moonlight filtered through the half-window there, spilling across the floor like rippling waves on the sea.

The accommodations were solid, and the meals matched five-star hotel standards, but lifesavers’ pay wasn’t great. Add in the long stretches stranded on the island, and it got boring for young folks. Turnover on the team was high as a result.

Meng Ning had worked there five years, making her one of the most senior members. Her roommate Qi Xiao had joined two years ago and could already claim veteran status.

Both women liked women—no need to spell it out. A single knowing glance during their first encounter had confirmed it for each other.

It caused no real hassle, just extra caution around showers and changing clothes. At the moment, Qi Xiao had just finished her shower and shut off the water. As she dressed in the bathroom, she called out to Meng Ning in the main room. “You’ve been here five years. Ever seen Wen Zenian?”

“No.”

Qi Xiao stepped out and immediately burst out laughing in exasperation at the sight of her roommate—freshly showered, Meng Ning lounged against the headboard with one arm pillowed behind her neck, staring vacantly at the moonlight beyond the window. But with only half a window, what was there really to stare at?

“How are you so uninterested in everything?” Qi Xiao tousled her damp hair while plugging in the blow dryer. “I’ve been here two years, and the confessions you’ve gotten—overt or subtle—have to number at least a dozen, maybe two.”

“Or…” Qi Xiao leaned in mysteriously. “Do you already have someone? Where do you disappear to for that half-day every time you get time off?”

Meng Ning yanked the blanket over her head. “Tired. Going to sleep.”

“Hey, you always dodge the topic whenever it comes up…”

The beach lifesaving team faced rigorous physical assessments every quarter. That’s why, each day at dawn before the sun got too brutal, the lifesavers ran drills along the coastline.

Qi Xiao hated it. She huffed and puffed daily, and now, gasping for air, she asked Meng Ning, “Wh-why’s a speedboat coming at this hour?”

The hotel’s speedboats shuttled guests at fixed times each day, but never this early.

Lifesavers ran with weighted packs. Qi Xiao unzipped hers and fished out a pair of binoculars. “Let me check who’s on board.”

She froze at the sight.

Meng Ning tensed. “What? Trouble?”

The beach wasn’t open yet, but rogue swimmers were always a risk.

“No, no.” Qi Xiao waved her off frantically, binoculars still glued to her eyes. “There’s a woman standing at the bow.”

Meng Ning started running again. “Weird?”

Qi Xiao grabbed her arm, dead serious. “Fuck, I always thought ‘Lesbian Circle Hottie’ was just a descriptor. Turns out it’s a proper noun—at least on this beach.”

“What do you mean?”

“That noun belongs to Gwyneth Won.” Qi Xiao thrust the binoculars at Meng Ning. “Look!”

“No need.” Meng Ning jogged ahead.

“Hey!” Qi Xiao caught up. “I’ve never seen anyone make a uniform look that good.”

The C Hotel Group’s staff uniforms were masterfully tailored—sharp shoulders, nipped waists, formal styles radiating restraint. This location’s were rose purple. The lifesaving team didn’t rate formal suits, but whenever Qi Xiao passed the front desk, she ogled the receptionists in theirs.

Suit jackets over stand-collar shirts, skirts with heels—pure eye candy.

Qi Xiao went on. “Wen Zenian’s isn’t rose purple. It’s ink blue—like… damn, I can’t pin down the shade. Just know it’s unique.”

“At this range, even binoculars won’t show her face clearly.” Meng Ning teased with a grin. “How’d you get so smitten already?”

“It’s not that. Beauty’s sometimes an aura—you get it?” Qi Xiao insisted. “Her waist is insanely slim, hair up in a bun, neck like a swan’s. One hand on the railing at the bow, wind tousling her bangs—okay, the bangs are my headcanon.”

Qi Xiao was emphatic. “Her photos aren’t filtered, and she’s gotta be hotter in person. You’ve seen them, right?”

Meng Ning shook her head.

“Are you even human? Zero interest in someone like Wen Zenian?” Qi Xiao whipped out her phone to pull them up, but Meng Ning cut in. “Captain’s timing us at the finish line.”

Qi Xiao let out a wail, then bolted with Meng Ning toward the end.

The annual gala came three days after Wen Zenian’s arrival.

With zero work overlap in that time, no one on the lifesaving team had laid eyes on her.

Qi Xiao was gutted at first, but her extrovert bounce-back was strong. “We’ll see her at the gala!”

For staff, the gala was the yearly highlight, complete with a fresh dress theme each time. Word was, this year’s—simply “Dream Weaving”—had been Wen Zenian’s pick.

Qi Xiao dove right in, snagging temporary dye and gear ahead of time. That afternoon, as shifts ended and prep began, Meng Ning watched her wash her hair, tint it pale gold, tease it fluffy with a curler, then squeeze into a pink bodycon dress under a riot of colorful faux fur. “Guess what I’m going as?”

“Flamingo,” Meng Ning deadpanned.

Qi Xiao chucked a tissue pack at her.

Meng Ning cracked up. “Kidding. I know—Barbie.”

Qi Xiao smirked. “Your turn?”

Meng Ning wore a thin gray hoodie then, one leg curled under her on the chair as she watched Qi Xiao’s makeup routine. She waved her wrist at the mirror.

Qi Xiao peeked. “What? The Buddha beads?”

Meng Ning turned solemn. “Form is emptiness, emptiness is form. As the Buddha teaches, mirror flowers and water moons fade to nothing…”

Qi Xiao smudged her eyeliner. She dabbed it clean with a cotton swab and flung it over. “Quit the deadpan dad jokes.”

She fetched a spare from the closet: a gray school blazer with pleated skirt. “Wear this.”

“No need.”

“You’re lazy! Gala’s once a year—don’t half-ass it. Come on, or it’s wasted.”

Qi Xiao nagged until Meng Ning caved and changed in the bathroom. Qi Xiao’s eyes sparkled. “You look too damn youthful—like the icy school flower from high school.”

Meng Ning pointed under her eyes. “Fine lines.”

Qi Xiao dismissed it. “No one sees that crap. Makeup?”

Meng Ning shook her head.

“Fair enough. You never wear any; sudden glam tonight would hog my shine.”

They bantered and laughed until time to go, then headed arm-in-arm to the venue.

Gala masks were mandatory, handed out at check-in. Qi Xiao grabbed a parrot-feather one to match her flamingo vibe. Meng Ning picked a dark gold cat-eye mask with sly upturned corners.

Qi Xiao’s three eyeliner redos made them late; the box was nearly empty. Meng Ning eyed a black lace mask in the corner—thin veil draping down, rice-grain pearls dotting the eye area like stars in an ink-black sky.

Striking and unique, it conjured visions of a medieval oil painting. But the ornate style was tricky; wear it wrong, and it’d swamp you. Hence, it sat untouched.

Qi Xiao asked check-in staff, “Gwyneth here yet?”

“She’s not coming.”

Qi Xiao blanked. “What?”

“Big boss flew in last-minute. She’s reporting to him—won’t make it. But she personally sponsored Dom Pérignon.” The staff leaned in. “Prime vintage.”

Booze couldn’t fix Qi Xiao’s wilt. She and Meng Ning hunkered at a banquet table, tuning in and out of the exec speeches.

Speeches done, dinner flowed into dancing. Peak vibe hit with games and the big raffle.

The VP was Italian; his accented Chinese sent Meng Ning drifting back to the mask box at check-in.

There, in the corner, the black lace one waited silently.

What woman would suit it? Meng Ning mused. Helen, the top ancient Greek beauty who’d ignited the Trojan War, maybe—with her wild red-gold curls evoking infinite charm, laced with Bulgarian rose perfume.

Qi Xiao nudged her elbow. “Clap! VP’s finished—no applause, kiss year-end bonus goodbye.”

Meng Ning smiled and joined in.

Dinner’s star was the rice wine foie gras cold plate. They sipped aged Dom Pérignon—Meng Ning took just enough for a light buzz, fixated on the champagne’s tiny bubbles. Beside her, Qi Xiao sighed, “Beauty-backed fine wine—pure beauty.”

Such a mouthful.

In her smile, Meng Ning pondered anew: Just how stunning was Wen Zenian? Would she pull off that black lace mask?

Post-dinner, dancing held no appeal for Meng Ning. She snapped pics for Qi Xiao instead. The floor teemed with Baroque ballgowns tangled amid ruqun skirts channeling Tang glory, dotted with outliers like Barbie and angels.

Vast dance floor, daytime-bright lights, wine-fueled haze all around—it felt less chaotic, more decadently alluring.

Revellers threw arms skyward, grasping at a hopeful tomorrow.

Photos done, Meng Ning reclaimed her seat. Crowds thinned the air; the foie gras turned cloying in her stomach. Craving a breather, she slipped out alone.

At the door, her steps faltered.

Check-in staff had ditched for the dance, leaving tables and chairs deserted. The void stretched across the whole terrace.

Baroque-styled, it sprawled hugely into the moonlight, faint waves sighing distantly at the edge of hearing.

At a balustrade intricately carved with motifs from several different fables, a slender figure stood motionless. Hearing her footsteps, the figure turned around.

The simply tailored ink-black gown draped elegantly down to her ankles. A night breeze lifted the hem, sending the stray locks of hair at her temples fluttering as well. She wore that very black lace mask Meng Ning had idly imagined several times that evening, one hand cradling a tall-stemmed flute of pale golden champagne. As she glanced back over her shoulder, a slender finger deftly tucked the errant strands behind her ear.

Meng Ning’s mind exploded with a thunderous boom.

She couldn’t make out the woman’s face, but that silhouette alone—that elegant poise as she gathered a trailing lock of long hair amid the night breeze—was enough.

In the wake of that fireworks burst inside her head, amid the drifting haze of smoke, a single phrase emerged:

“She is the one who weaves dreams.”